The Slave Warrior

by Marilyn Donnellan

  “I’ve never ridden a quadricycle before. How about you, Mac?”

  “Nah, but it doesn’t look too hard. Everybody just sits on a seat and pedals.”

  “Brogan,” Herbert interrupted excitedly, “I forgot to tell you last night the vid-phone is fully charged. You can try to contact your general.”

  “Oh, right. Let’s eat before I attempt to call him. Thanks, Herbert. Any luck with the old computer?”

  “Nah, I’m afraid it is fried. But I salvaged some parts. Never know if you might need a mother board.”

  “A what? Oh, never mind,” Brogan said with a wave of her hand, “I don’t want to know and probably wouldn’t understand if you tried to tell me. I majored in mechanical engineering and history in college. Computers and electronics are really not my thing.”

  The trio finished breakfast and Herbert said he would wash dishes while Brogan tried to contact the general. After several tries and no response, she gave up.

  “He must be out of range,” she said. “I’ll try later.”

  They made sure the little house was close to its original condition before they left. It was still early, so they hoped to make good time to Springfield. But first, they must learn how to ride the quadricycle. None of them had ever ridden anything other than motorcycles before, but it looked easy; just pedal. The cycle looked kind of like a tricycle, although it had four wheels: two in front and two in back, with one recumbent seat in the front and two upright seats side-by-side in the back. Mac sat in front. The solar panel extended out flat behind two upright seats, with a charging battery under the panel. Although old, the tires were made from a synthetic material and seemed to be in decent shape. Mac located some oil and squirted the gears, helping them to move more smoothly.

  They all got on, stowed their backpacks on top of the battery and started off, fastening everything down with some chords Mac found in the barn. They were surprised at how fast they moved. “I guess three people pedaling is faster than just one,” Mac hollered back at Herbert and Brogan over the noise of rushing wind.

  “Our legs are going to be really sore by the end of the day,” she hollered at Mac after they had been riding for about an hour. “In fact, I’m going to get off and walk periodically. Otherwise I’m afraid my legs will cramp up.”

  “Good idea,” he called back. “Let’s take a break now and every hour and walk for a while.”

  The three gingerly struggled off the bike, their legs shaking from the first hour of pedaling. Brogan guessed they probably made 25 miles per hour on the cycle. But since none of them were physically conditioned to pedal for very long, it would take longer than five to six hours to reach Springfield. The air was hot and humid, but breeze from their movement kept them reasonably cool. They saw no one on the two-lane road the entire day.

  She was right. It was dark by the time they reached the outskirts of the small suburb of Springfield. Their exhausted legs felt like they had been hit repeatedly with pipes. Walking was a gritted-teeth effort. Not knowing what they might find in Springfield, they decided to camp outside in a wooded area off the road. Brogan tried several times to contact the general, but without success. Mac pulled the cycle under a large tree and covered it with brush, just to make sure it was hidden from the road. Brogan pulled some raw vegetables she salvaged from the garden out from her backpack, while Herbert opened a large packet of dried beans they reconstituted with water and passed around to eat as they sat on the mossy ground. The early evening breeze and sounds of insects and night birds serenaded the weary trio.

  Without conversation, one by one the three stretched out on the ground, using their backpacks for pillows and fell into exhausted sleep. Even the warrior Brogan failed to consider they might need to plan for a rotating sentry watch, especially since they had seen no one all day.

  It was a very rude awakening for all three of them at daybreak. A heavy boot slammed into Mac’s side, jerking him awake.

  “Hey,” he yelled, as he sat up. He was jerked to his feet by two very large soldiers, almost as big as he was. Brogan started to scramble up. Before she could reach for her weapon hidden under the solar blanket she was laying on, a deep voice snarled, “I don’t know what is under there, but don’t even think about it, Missy,” a deep voice snarled.

  She slowly looked around to see they were surrounded by at least a dozen soldiers. She heard Herbert squeak in terror. She carefully looked over at him and shook her head slightly. Moving her hand away from her rifle, she calculated the odds of them being able to fight back: not good. Herbert wasn’t a fighter.

  “Okay if I get to my feet, sir?” She asked quietly, never taking her eyes off the man who appeared to be in charge.

  “Just take it slow,” he said with a growl. “Now, who are you and what are you doing out here? We’re looking for three saboteurs and oh, look, there are three of you.”

  “Sir, my name is Susan Soldmier. My brother, Seth. The older man is our uncle, Jeremy Abraham. We were on our way to Springfield to visit my father, Uncle Jeremy’s brother. But, we were robbed yesterday by three people. They stole our robo-car, along with all of our identification.”

  As she talked, Brogan began to tremble and sob. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Herbert and Mac with their mouths open in shock. They were bewildered by her wild story.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” she said through her sobs. “But it was so incredibly terrifying. I am so upset just thinking about it.” She looked out from under her eyelashes to see if her act had any impact on the leader of the soldiers. Nope. No effect. So, she decided to be a bit more dramatic.

  “Oh, dear! I think I might faint. I’m very dizzy.” Brogan began to tremble, making her legs shake.

  As she fell, she managed to land right on top of her rifle. She laid perfectly still, carefully looking through the slits of her eyes to see the major’s reaction. Finally, she had gotten through to him. He had a confused look on his face.

  “Sir,” Mac begged, finally deciding to participate in Brogan’s charade. “Please, my sister has these fainting spells. Can I please go to her? And I need some water to revive her.”

  The major signaled for the soldiers to let him loose and Mac rushed over to Brogan’s side. Herbert came over to the other side of her and started patting her hand. One of the soldiers went to get some water.

  Mac leaned down close to Brogan who managed to whisper out of the side of her mouth. “You handle the ones on the right. I’ll handle the ones on the left. Herbert, you hit the ground as soon as I start shooting.”

  Once the water arrived, Mac carefully started to lift Brogan up as she surreptitiously pulled the rifle out from under the solar blanket and kept it at her side. Mike, with his back to the soldiers, pulled his laser pistol out of the front of his tunic where he always kept it. With a nod, he fell to the side and both started shooting.

  Caught totally by surprise, the soldiers had no chance, their rifles no match to Brogan’s specially modified laser rifle and Mac’s pistol barrage. Within seconds all soldiers were down. Brogan looked over at Herbert. At first, she thought he was hit, but she realized he trembled from fright. She laid her hand on his back.

  “It’s over, Herbert. We’re safe now, but we’re going to need to get out of here fast. There are apt to be a lot more of them around. Mac, help me move the bodies into the woods.”

  Removing every trace of the soldiers, they covered their bodies and equipment with underbrush, after searching them for useful weapons, ammunition and food. They uncovered the cycle and headed for Springfield. It was painful going since they were sore from the previous day’s efforts. But they had no choice. They pedaled for about an hour and began to see signs of life: robo cars began to pass them, with apartments and businesses sitting along the road.

  “Let’s see if we can find a train station,” Brogan hollered above the wind of the cycle.

  A few minutes later, Mac, still in front, gestured toward a railroad depot ahead on their left. They carefully steered th
at direction and parked the cycle. Mac and Brogan slowly walked by the railroad building, innocently talking while Herbert moved next to the buildings, looking for any BL codes.

  “Got one,” he said quietly. Mac and Brogan stood in front of Herbert while he used the writing stylus he always carried with him to write the code down on his hand.

  “When you’re done, Herbert, walk over to the park I see on the right. Mac and I will meet you by the large statue in the middle.”

  The three tried to appear nonchalant, but their caution was unnecessary. Everyone around them was focused on their own business, with no signs of soldiers. As soon as they met at the statue, Herbert read the code to them.

  “Meeting, Wednesday, 8 pm, and a shape I don’t understand.”

  “Let me see, Herbert.” Brogan looked at the shape, like a Roman temple.

  “Herbert, look up Springfield on your vid-phone. See if you can find any old buildings looking like a Roman temple.”

  After a few minutes, he showed them two possibilities: the old Symphony Hall and the Forest Park Historic District building. Brogan looked at the vid-pictures of both, comparing them to the BL code.

  “It’s the Symphony Hall,” she said firmly. “Today is Tuesday, so it means the meeting is tomorrow night.”

  “But how can you tell?” Mac asked. “We can’t wait around another week, just in case you’re wrong.”

  “Okay, smarty, you look at the two pictures, look at the BL code and tell me which one is correct and why.”

  Mac squinted back and forth at the pictures and the code and shook his head in bewilderment. “I can’t see the difference.”

  Brogan looked over at Herbert, who had a big grin on his face. “You figured it out, right?”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” he said emphatically. “The BL code picture has eight columns. The only one of the two pictures with eight columns is the Symphony Hall. The mansion in the Forest Park Historic District picture only has four.”

  Mac slapped his forehead. “Dumb me. I should have caught the difference.”

  “I tell you what, Mac, you continue to do what you do best: cook and blow things up. Leave the brainy stuff to me and Herbert,” she said with a laugh.

  “Sounds like a plan,” Mac agreed sheepishly.

  Herbert looked pleased he contributed to solving the puzzle.

  “But what are we going to do between now and then?” he asked.

  “Oh, I’m sure we can think of something,” Brogan replied. “We need to find someplace to sleep and, I don’t know about you guys, but I’m starved. Let’s go exploring and see what we can find. Anyone with any money? I only have about $50.”

  The three pooled their limited resources and located a small boarding house with rooms to rent. Brogan stayed in the background and kept the bill on her cap pulled down to avoid being recognized by the landlady while Mac did the talking. A couple of vid-news screens they saw as they walked through town, showed pictures of Brogan as a dangerous rebel.

  Dinner and breakfast were included at the boarding house. All they needed now was to figure out what to do with the quadricycle. After a discussion with the landlady, she said she would waive the rent in exchange for the cycle and give them $200. She had a teenage son who would love to have it. Problem solved. Now they just needed to wait until the BL meeting tomorrow to hopefully find a way to travel west to the rebel camp and find out what happened to Sandra and Mouse.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Begging for Help

  Canadian Prime Minister Pierre Rondeau finally agreed to meet with Marco and Allison Anton. Apparently, the news Emperor Priest was determined to build nuclear weapons and a cyborg army was enough to convince him they needed to discuss joining forces. The young couple was ecstatic but terrified they might not be informed enough to handle the meeting.

  The meeting was scheduled for 10 am sharp, almost three years after their arrival in Canada by submarine.

  They both dressed carefully in conservative tunics, not wanting to appear either flashy or poverty stricken. They arrived in Ottawa the day before the meeting, staying at a small bed and breakfast a few blocks from Parliament Hill. Originally a military base in the 18th and 19th centuries, a fire in 1916 serious damaged it. There was extensive renovation in the early 2000’s. The limestone outcrop was now topped by a quadrangle. Buildings included the parliament and departmental buildings modeled after Great Britain’s Parliament building, surrounded by an English garden, statues, memorials and art. Symbolically, the meeting would be held inside Peace Tower at the center of the complex, similar in appearance to London’s Big Ben clock tower from the Victorian era.

  Marco and Allison spent most of the morning reviewing notes they made on their vid-phone of the main points they wanted to stress with PM Rondeau: needed support with weapons, soldiers and propaganda. Even in late August, a chill was in the Canadian morning air as they walked toward Peace Tower. Allison could see Marco’s nervousness by the way he tended to pull her along as his pace picked up.

  “Slow down, honey,” she said with a grin. “Plenty of time. Besides you don’t want to be out of breath at your arrival. Look around you at the beautiful gardens. Wouldn’t they make some beautiful wall paintings?”

  Marco was an artist and often did mural paintings on commission to add to their income. Allison worked at a local hospital as an emergency room doctor.

  This would be their first meeting with the prime minister.

  “Sorry, Sweetie,” Marco responded sheepishly. “I just don’t want to mess this up. So much depends on what we say to the prime minister. I know French Canadians take their time on things but waiting three years to meet with us is ridiculous.”

  He moved to the side of the path to observe some ducks swimming in a beautiful pond, surrounded by flowering bushes. They stood together for a minute watching the ducks before walking a bit more sedately toward the tower. Although a few minutes early, they walked up the stairs and approached the guard standing in front of the gabled massive doors at the base of the Tower.

  The guard obviously expected them. He compared their pictures to his security vid-phone, gave them each a security badge, and opened the doors.

  “Prime Minister Rondeau will meet you in the Elizabeth room at the end of the hall on your left,” he said with a bow, closing the door behind them.

  The cathedral ceilings in the hallway caused their footsteps to echo as they walked. On the walls hung portraits of past Canadian prime ministers and kings and queens of England. It was a museum. The further down the hall they walked the farther back in history they seemed to be going. They finally reached the Elizabeth room, and sure enough, a huge portrait of Queen Elizabeth II, hung on the wall to the right of the door. Her great-grandson, King George, was the monarch when Great Britain was annihilated in World War III.

  Without a word between them, they opened the door. The room they entered was nothing like the stateliness of the hallway, but quite small and probably only ten to twelve-feet square. A small modern conference table sat in the center of the room with body-molding chairs around it. Several selections of beverages and French pastries sat in the center of the table. No one else was in the room. A secrecy dome perched above the table and light streamed in from tall windows spaced across one wall. They just finished a walk around the room, looking at the few modern paintings on the wall, when the door opened.

  In walked PM Rondeau with an aide. The PM was very tall and thin, almost skeletal. His thick hair was gray and long enough to touch his collar. He combed it straight back, showing off the sharp lines of his face, including a rather large nose. He wore dark, wine-red tunic and slacks, trimmed in black, obviously tailor-made to fit his slim body. Marco and Allison both bowed and waited for the PM to speak.

  “Come, come,” he said in a surprisingly deep voice, speaking English but with a thick French accent. “Let’s not be formal. While we are within theze walls I prefer you call me Pierre. And I understand you are Marco and Allison Anton and you
have been trying to zee me for quite some time.”

  “Yes, Your Excellency,” Marco squeaked, cleared his throat and said more firmly, “We really appreciate your taking time from your busy schedule to meet with us on a matter we think has potentially huge impacts on your country as well as ours.”

  “Pierre, please.” He turned to his aide. “Astor drop the security dome in place. Marco and Allison, Astor Bouche, my aide. Pleaze sit. And help yourself to ze refreshments.”

  The aide poured some tea for everyone while Marco passed pastries around. While everyone contentedly munched away, the prime minister started the conversation.

  “I don’t know if you heard, but one of our intelligence officers in ze Boston area reported hearing two massive explosions last night in ze area; one in ze emperor’s pyramid. Book Liberator’s are reporting two of their people planted ze explosions but were killed in ze blast. Rumor says one of them was ze emperor’s former consort, Sandra Bernhardt, who haz not been seen or heard from in years. Damage to ze pyramid was extensive.

  “Ze second explosion was at Pilgrim Nuclear Generating Station south of Boston about ze same time as first. Three Book Liberator saboteurs reportedly caused ze blast, making ze station no longer useable. They haven’t been seen or heard from, although there are rumors of a BL rebel run-in with a tank patrol and some soldiers near Springfield. Ze last vid-cast from Emperor Priest was almost, how you say, “incoherent.” I zaw it myself. In fact, Astor, why don’t you pull it up for our American friends, zo they can zee it for themselves?”

  Astor swiped his hand across a pad in front of him, punched some buttons and a holo image of the emperor appeared in front of them. It was so life-like both Marco and Allison almost jumped out of their seats.

  “Amazing new technology ez it not?” the PM said with a grin, as the voice of the emperor filled the secrecy dome.